


Early To Rise, or Some Other Standard Bakery Pun

by abadmeanman



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Bakery, Bullysquadess, F/M, Health Code Violations, married people sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-15
Updated: 2016-09-15
Packaged: 2018-08-15 03:25:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8040652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abadmeanman/pseuds/abadmeanman
Summary: Bakery days start early; Tom and Sabine have plenty of time to do whatever they want after the last batch of croissants is in the oven.





	Early To Rise, or Some Other Standard Bakery Pun

**Author's Note:**

> Happy birthday, Bully!

Tom Dupain slid the tray of croissants into the oven with a satisfied sigh and brushed spare flour off of his hands, onto his apron. With a little puff of breath, he blew more of it from his moustache to float lazily as a thousand golden motes in the early morning sunlight. You never want flour in your facial hair--Sabine loved to tease him for it, if he ever forgot. The Sabine in question was checking on the progress of the morning baguettes--rising and lengthening nicely--and whipped the eggs for their brioche order with a smooth, practiced hand. 

In the quiet time of the morning, twenty years of marriage and baking flowed into an easy, methodical rhythm: roll, fold, knead, bake. More than anything else, their rhythm was a dance, and it gave them plenty of reasons to swell with pride. Paris could ask for no better bakery than Tom and Sabine’s. With years of experience, an ideal location, fare appealing to all the senses, and a very personal touch to every baked good, Tom Dupain and Sabine Cheng were the culinary  _ giants _ straddling an eager, hungry city. They smiled as they worked: Sabine rounding out the curves on the dome of a wedding cake, Tom daintily icing the tiny penises on the gingerbread men. 

With a satisfied sigh, Tom added a tiny glans to the last gingerbread stud of the batch, subconsciously taking inventory of the ribald comestibles displayed in his bakery. First thing to check, of course: the status of the  crowning achievement of their bakery. The croquembouche. Their display croquembouche was a brilliant centerpiece, dozens upon dozens of breast-shaped choux pastries broadly spiraling into a bulging mammary peak, erect nipple faux-pierced with a macaron-ended barbell piercing. He called it a “croquemboob,” and during wedding season, he and Sabine could barely pump them out fast enough.

His eyes caressed the rest of the goods, early-morning inventory still incomplete. Neat rows of penis-eclairs (“pricklairs”) saluted, erect, from their case to the right of the counter--each one dripping a little of its cream filling. Not enough to be wasteful, but enough to show how carefully they had been filled--and the rich  _ noix _ -cream of the filling. Always a favorite.

There were roughly triangular croissants with a chocolate dip that resembled a woman’s pubic hair (“croitchssants”); scalloped butt-plug caneles (“c-anales”); a cake in the shape of a flexing man with pert chocolate nipples and a thick ganache shaft (“cockake”); galettes topped with little fondant figures frozen, fucking, mid-gangbang (the “Caligulette”). They served a cocklike frangipane jesuite with two round kouign-amann testicles (“frangipenis”), and the chouquette vulvas were  _ always  _ popular (“chouqunts”). They had recently perfected their technique for churros, and cinnamon-sprinkled stick figures sixty-nined across the counter (“chorral sex”). Even their more experimental braided “chandcuff challa” rings had been a hit with the local kinksters. By any standard, it was a sexual smorgasbord to admire. 

Yes,  _ Tom & Sabine Boulangerie Patisserie Erotique _ was the finest erotic baked goods emporium in Paris--potentially in Europe. If you gave the truth a sensual oil massage, maybe even the best in the world. Barely a bachelorette party went by without at least  _ one _ stop at Tom and Sabine’s for cake cock-pops. Nary a boy’s night out proceeded without Tom’s edible marzipan underwear. Even widely-renowned Egyptologists couldn’t resist their life-sized lusty lady loaves, based off of Sabine herself--it was the best bread in Paris, after all. And if it happened to double as a decadent dakimakura, then all the better.

A gentle slap startled Tom out of his self-congratulatory reverie, the feeling of Sabine’s hand on his bare behind electrifying him. He turned, apron fluttering around bare thighs, to see Sabine lifting herself onto the counter, scattering baking implements hither and thither. It was a familiar, but  _ intensely _ welcome sight: Sabine on the counter, clad like him in a lightweight apron and nothing else. Her legs spreading in invitation. 

The sight of befloured cloth draped across her most intimate parts, her breasts just barely hidden by the apron,  _ begging _ to be revealed, drove him wild with the oven-hot passion of a  _ baker _ every morning. 

A patissier’s day starts  _ very _ early each morning; they tend to get an early start on  _ everything _ , including activities that most couples leave until the evening and the bedchamber. And while patisserie is a busy discipline, there’s  _ plenty _ of time for a motivated pair of bakers after the last batch goes in the oven.

The front of Tom’s apron began to rise--independent of any action of his hands--as he strutted over to the counter upon which his wife was perched. Sensual. Floured. Alluring.

“That’s… the last batch of croissants,” he said, voice dipping into a huskier register.

“Well, then,” she said, part of the familiar teasing script of their morning ritual. “I suppose we have a little extra time.”

“What do you think we should do?” he asked, already kneeling in front of Sabine. She hooked one ankle around the back of his neck, her left slipping towards her breast while the right one slowly lifted the lower hem of the apron. 

“I suppose we could… do a taste test,” said Sabine, whipping aside the apron and drawing Tom’s face to her succulent parkerhouse roll. Tom needed no encouragement; he threw himself, mustache first, between her thighs, his bristles tickling between her softer curls. Sabine murmured a low, satisfied sound as she felt Tom slowly tease her into a floating, pleasurable readiness. 

Between her thighs, Tom was starting his lovemaking gently. Reacquainting himself with every centimeter of Sabine’s fondant sanctuary. Lightly flitting about with tongue, kissing lip to lip, feeling how ready she was for a very  _ particular _ loaf. He dug his hands into her hipbones, pulling a moan from her as he combined the grab with a soft, slow, humming kiss to the very top of her cleft. He could feel her slick and ready, desire already wetting his chin, and he licked a broad finger clean of flour before sliding it up and down her bloom. When he slowly slid it inside, her hands tangled themselves in his hair. 

Most people eat pussy. They nibble, they lick, they finger. Tom Dupain  _ feasts _ on pussy. A true gourmand, he goes down on his wife with the energy and passion of an  _ Ancien Regime _ libertine tucking into a banquet:  _ ravenous _ , yet somehow refined. His lips sucked hers into his mouth as his tongue traced a crescendo of music onto her bijou; his fingers plied her most intimate parts for that hidden, familiar  _ spot _ that would rocket her to outer space as she sat squirming helplessly on the counter. 

The oven dinged, and Tom released his grip on Sabine’s hip to turn off the oven. With his eyes still closed, mouth still basting Sabine with pleasure, right hand still curling into her, he slipped an oven mitt onto his left hand, extracted the last of the croissants, and slid them onto the cooling rack. An immense reach was  _ extremely _ helpful in a bakery.

Perfectly timed to the workings of the oven, Sabine peaked and moaned, flooding his mustache and mouth as the last croissant left the pan. Tom rocked his face along with her as she shuddered and thrust onto his fingers and into his lips. No taste was sweeter on his palate. She quivered and collapsed in on herself, finishing out her climax with a low, satisfied moan.

But they weren’t nearly finished. 

One of the reasons that Sabine had fallen in love with her sweet baker boy years ago was because of his  _ immeasurable skill _ at  _ piping _ . 

Tom could  _ really _ use a pipe. 

Both kinds. 

Tom could squirt thick white creams through a tube like no other boy at the culinary academy where they’d met. Even though  _ cordon bleu _ was the rope they kept under their bed for three-day weekends nowadays, and not their professional training regimen, Tom had  _ not _ lost his skills. He could pipe and pipe and pipe with the best of them--so much piping that at the end of each day, their cakes were exquisite, and both Sabine and Tom were exhausted. For at least two reasons.

With a shake of his hips, the weight of Tom’s own prodigious baguette swept his apron to the side. Sabine was ready for him, slipping off the counter and turning around, presenting a gorgeously curved posterior topped with the single tied string of her apron. She bent over, pressing herself into the wooden countertop, one hand sliding between her legs. She cocked her hips up at him, inviting. 

The secret of a long, successful marriage, in their experience, had been shared interests: baking, and fucking. Both at the same time? No force could tear them apart.

Tom bent over Sabine, prodigious frame towering over his tiny wife. He twisted one hand into her apron string--leverage--and ran the other up to her shoulder, holding her close to him as he locked his lips onto her neck. He let go of her shoulder to better guide his batard to her passion-croissant, the bulbous love-muffin sliding easily between her ready lips. They shared a moan, amorous noises slipping out of them unbidden as Sabine was acclimating herself to his ponderous dimensions. Even with a daily dose of the Tom-tube, getting Romance Services from M. Dupain was  _ not _ something to perform slipshod. By no stretch of the imagination was Tom half-cocked--but that didn’t mean the preparations to get plowed by him had to be.

Sabine looked over her shoulder at her husband, nodding. She was ready--the familiar soreness of Tom’s first entry fading into a dull, pulsing swell of desire. He pulled her onto him, tugging her hips back by the apron strap, as his other hand squeezed her hipbones, just tightly enough. She enveloped him with an ease that spoke of years upon years of practice. Hips twisting, she took him in as deeply as she could--ass slapping into his hips in a slow, building rhythm. Every centimeter filling her, grinding against her in  _ just the right way _ , sending stars across her vision as she braced herself on the countertop. The apron digging into her skin where Tom was pulling on the strap. The feeling of Tom’s hand holding her hip--wrapped almost all the way around to her luscious crumpet. Her own fingers gliding across her bijou, providing a high, chiming counterpoint to the deeper, baritone pleasures of Tom inside her. 

For Tom, the pressure was building, too. Every slick thrust into Sabine sent shudders down his spine. Warm curls of heat traced themselves along his shaft every time he felt Sabine’s folds glide across him. His breath came in shorter bursts now, almost panting in time with Sabine as he slid into her, their moves a fondant symphony mirroring so many of the decadent delectables of the storefront. Their lovemaking had grown in maturity and intensity and meaning through the years--a sexual craquelure which added passion and depth to their relationship, like the spiderweb-thin lines on an ancient portrait adding more value than the original version could ever have imagined. Thoughts of love filled Tom, as he filled Sabine.

Their climax came at the same time--years of practice perfecting techniques and the knowledge of each others bodies. Sabine’s touch could raise no loaf more adeptly than Tom’s; Tom’s nimble fingers could knead nothing so sensually pliant as Sabine’s intimate parts. With great, shuddering breaths and juddering, sighing moans, Tom spent himself in Sabine; she the eclair, he the custard. They wilted where they stood (or leaned), enjoying the simple pleasure of being  _ spent _ and being  _ with _ each other. It was a moment of serene harmony that was almost more enjoyable than--

“Papa? Maman?”

And they had both forgotten that Marinette was getting up early today.  

Their daughter stood in the door to the bakery, the expression on her face an unnamed combination of horrified and flabbergasted.

“This is clearly a health code violation!”

**Author's Note:**

> I have been waiting SO LONG to use the phrase "sexual craquelure."
> 
>  
> 
> EDIT: oh my great googly gosh check out this art of a sexy Sabine by sinner-sinner-chiken-dinner!
> 
> http://sinner-sinner-chiken-dinner.tumblr.com/post/150467382256/the-bad-uncle-abadmeanman-did-a-thing-and-i


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